A Scandalous Proposal

by Julia Justiss

  The green-eyed girl cast a look of appeal. As the soldier, with obvious reluctance, turned toward them, Evan saw that the left sleeve of his uniform coat hung empty. His face was pale and rather drawn, pain lines still etched at his eyes, mouth and brow, as if his injuries were quite recent.

  “I must seize the opportunity while I can,” Miss Winstead confided as the soldier, body rigidly erect as if on parade, approached them. “Giles only came tonight because our hostess’s son is one of his closest Oxford friends. Usually I have no luck at all persuading him to accompany me.”

  After introductions were made, bows and curtseys exchanged, their hostess called them for dinner. “We’ll be separated at table, no doubt, but you must talk with Miss Marlowe after dinner, Giles,” his sister urged. “Her brother Richard is with the 95th Rifles.”

  A flicker of interest flared in the dead gray eyes, swiftly extinguished. “A gallant unit, Miss Marlowe. My compliments to your brother.”

  ‘I would very much enjoy speaking with you,” Andrea replied. “Richard’s letters are fascinating, but so full of fantastical stories I believe half what he writes must be sheer invention. Perhaps you could—”

  “I shan’t be staying.” He flashed his sister an angry look. “I don’t dance.”

  He turned to leave. Andrea reached out and caught his sleeve—the empty one. He froze, then looked pointedly at the white glove grasping the bloodred cloth. Andrea’s cheeks pinked, but she did not release it.

  “I don’t dance, either,” she said softly. Looking up at him, she smiled that brilliant, angelic Andrea smile Evan remembered so vividly from before the accident. “Could you not stay? I miss my brother so dreadfully. It would be great comfort to talk with someone who knows—what he faces.”

  “Giles, please,” his sister added in an urgent undertone.

  For a moment the soldier was silent, a muscle ticking in his hollowed cheek. If he could resist Andrea’s smile, Evan thought, the man had lost more than an arm.

  “Very well,” he said curtly. “I suppose I could stay a few moments.”

  “Lord Cheverley, if you please?” His hostess called him to escort in her highest-ranking female guest. As Evan walked off to perform that duty, he glanced back to make sure Andrea’s escort had arrived and understood his instructions. He noticed the soldier also waiting with his sister, perhaps employing the same delaying tactic for reaching the table unnoticed he was using to protect Andrea.

  After he’d seated his elderly dowager, he looked back a second time to see the soldier halted, an arrested look on his face as he stood aside to let Andrea, leaning heavily on the arm of her escort, limp past him.

  A few hours later, aflame with impatience, Evan escorted the Cheverley ladies home. “Yes, Mama, a delightful dinner,” he responded as the women handed over their cloaks to the butler. With a raised eyebrow, his mother watched him wave Billingsly away as the man turned to take his coat.

  “You are going out?” she asked.

  “I imagine you ladies will want a comfortable coze at which to dissect the costume and character of all the guests present. An activity, I’m sure you will agree, you can carry out much more expeditiously without my assistance.”

  “He’s probably going back to that dreary Horse Guards office,” Clare said with a groan. “Whatever he can find to occupy himself there for so many hours, I can’t imagine. I think he must be doing penance for the crime of remaining safely in England while Richard had to go back to the mud and heat of the Peninsula.”

  At least part of that assessment struck home with such painful accuracy that Evan grimaced. Before he could reply, though, Andrea spoke up.

  “For shame, Clare! You know Evan would have gone, too, had it been possible. Besides, someone of intelligence must remain in England to support the army. Richard says in his letters that Evan’s work with the munitions department is perhaps the most important civilian job here. And he’s been neglecting it sorely these last few days to squire us about.” She smiled at him, that wistful, sweet Andrea smile. “Don’t let us detain you any longer, Evan. And thank you again for—well, you know.”

  She gave him a conspiratorial wink and took Clare’s hand. “Come, help me up the stairs. And you must tell me about that young man, Captain Winstead’s friend, who seemed to find you so fascinating.”

  That earned her a giggle. In a moment the two girls had their heads together as Clare gave Andrea her arm. Evan’s mother lingered a moment, however, her keen eyes resting on him.

  He stood silent, unwilling to confirm or deny Clare’s prediction that he was headed for his office, his desire to quit the house and reach Emily an almost physical ache. Finally his mother said simply, “Good night, my son.”

  “Good night, Mother.” He bowed and turned on his heel, murmuring in an undertone to the butler as he passed not to keep a footman waiting up for him. As the heavy front door closed behind him, his mother was still at the stairway staring speculatively after him.

  With a sigh Emily laid aside the book she’d not been reading for the last hour. It was after midnight, well past the time a shopkeeper who must be up before dawn should be sleeping. Yet an edgy restlessness kept her from slumber.

  Evan had not called for four days now, not since the morning he’d arrived to find Drew here. He’d seemed affronted, almost furious at her for failing to confide in him about her son. Was he still angry?

  Or was that anger merely a catalyst for the beginning of the end? Or the end itself? Having never indulged in one before, she had no idea how an affair ended. If she’d considered the matter at all, she’d supposed Evan’s visits would gradually become less frequent and finally cease, probably with him attempting to give her some sort of lavish farewell present she would firmly refuse.

  But mayhap that wasn’t so. Mayhap it just—ended, abruptly, with no warning. ’Twas the nature of an affair, after all, that there were no formal ties binding the couple together. And therefore none to sever.

  She might never see him again, feel his touch, hear the engaging warmth of his laughter. A wave of bleakness swept over her, so unexpectedly strong it robbed her of breath.

  “Emily.”

  She gasped at the sound, at first thinking she’d only imagined his voice. Then he stepped into the candlelight. With a little cry, she jumped up and ran to him, the book falling forgotten to the floor.

  He caught her in his arms and crushed her close, then cradled her cheek in one hand as he kissed her hair, her forehead. “Emily, sweeting,” he sighed against her brow. “I’m sorry, my darling. If I’d known how much blasted trouble this business of come-outs was going to be, I’d have fled the country.”

  His caressing fingers touched the wetness at the corner of her eye and stopped abruptly. Drawing back a bit, he tilted her chin up. “What is it? What’s troubling you?”

  She swiped impatiently at the tears. “Nothing, now. I’d been thinking you were still angry. That perhaps you wouldn’t—come here again.”

  He stared at her a moment as if her words were incomprehensible. Then his eyes lit with tenderness and his lips curved into a smile. “Ah, sweeting,” he whispered. “I’ll never leave you, never. If ever we part, it will be you who sends me away.”

  Dawn was but the faintest promise of light at the east window when an insistent rapping brought Emily out of deep sleep. “Lord Cheverley! It’s Baines! Please, my lord, you must come!”

  Alarm shocking through her, she shook Evan’s bare shoulder. As his eyes opened groggily, Baine’s knock sounded again. “Please, my lord, I’ve an urgent message.”

  Comprehension dawned and his eyes snapped open. “I’ll be right there, Baines. Give me a moment.”

  Evan leaped out of bed, pawing among the tangle of clothes on the bedside chair for his breeches. As he struggled into them, Emily found flint and lit a chamber candle. With a nod of thanks, Evan took it and strode to the door, opening it just a little so that his body shielded Emily from the servant’s view.


  “Thank God I’ve found you, my lord. A messenger arrived nearly an hour ago and set the house in an uproar. He brought you this letter.”

  Evan snatched the note, broke the seal and held the candle close as he read. “Dear God,” he whispered when he’d finished, squeezing his eyes together tightly as though reeling from a blow. Folding the note with hands that now trembled, he took a deep breath.

  “Have the stables ready my two fastest horses and pack me a kit. Did you tell my mother where—”

  “No, my lord. I didn’t tell her ladyship nobbit but that I’d find you. I figured as how you’d be either here or at the office. I tried here first.”

  Evan nodded. “Good. Go, then. I’ll want to leave at once.”

  “Yes, my lord.” After a surreptitious glance over Evan’s shoulder toward Emily, the valet disappeared.

  Evan shut the door. Reaching the chair in two strides, he thrust down the candle and began gathering his clothes. Emily threw on a robe and went to assist.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked as she fastened one shirt cuff.

  “Nothing. It’s Richard.”

  “Your friend—the one in the army?”

  “Yes. The note is from a regimental surgeon. Richard’s been wounded, perhaps mortally. He was evacuated with some other soldiers on a packet that made port yesterday. He told the doctors to contact me. I must go at once.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry.”

  Looking up from the boot he was jamming on his foot, Evan opened his lips as if to speak, then swallowed hard instead. He nodded and picked up the other boot.

  “Mistress, está bem?” Francesca’s voice sounded from behind the door.

  Emily ran to open it. “Tell Jenkins to saddle Lord Cheverley’s horse at once.”

  Francesca, a shawl wrapped around her nightdress, frilly nightcap askew, peered in at the frantic activity and made the sign of the cross. “Imediatamente, mistress.”

  Emily followed Evan downstairs, helped him shrug on his overcoat. He leaned down to give her a swift, fierce kiss. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’ll send word as soon as I can.”

  “A safe journey. I’ll be praying for you—and him.”

  He brought her fingers to his lips briefly, squeezed them, then flung open the front door and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Nine

  Evan saw lights at the windows, a groom holding horses and servants hurrying about as he approached his front door at a gallop. Tossing his reins to a stable boy, he leaped from the saddle and ran up the steps.

  The entry hall held more milling servants, his weeping sister in the arms of his mother, and Andrea. Stone-faced and tearless, she stood in her riding dress, crop in one gloved hand. “I’m going with you,” she said flatly.

  “Andrea, dearest, you mustn’t,” his mother said over Clare’s head, continuing what appeared to be a running argument. “’Tis a grueling ride, and you know Evan can proceed faster without you. Reaching Richard as quickly as possible is the most important consideration.”

  “I may not walk well, but I can still ride better than Evan. Richard’s my brother, the only family I have left, and I’m going.” She looked over at Evan and raised her chin. “If you won’t take me, I’ll ride alone.”

  Evan smiled at her. “I’ll take you.”

  “Evan!” his mother protested, and shook her head. “Oh, very well. But I’m bringing the coach. Someone must be sensible, and we’ll need a comfortable conveyance to bring him home, not some ill-sprung jarvey.”

  “Then I’m coming, too!” Clare cried.

  “I need you to stay and get the house ready.” She gave the tear-stained girl a shake. “You’ll do that for me, won’t you darling? And for Richard?”

  Baines appeared at the landing, saddlebag and heavy riding boots in hand. While Evan changed boots, his mama briefly related the news they’d gleaned from the messenger: Richard and several other wounded soldiers had been carried to the Cross and Anchor, tended by the regimental surgeon who’d written Evan. And his case appeared grave.

  “I’ve had the messenger fed and shown to bed,” his mama finished as he donned the heavy greatcoat Billingsly held out, and drew on his thickest gloves.

  “Good. Fetch my cloak for Miss Marlowe, please,” he told the butler, and turned to Andrea. “We’ll wrap you up in that. ’Twill be a cold ride. Thank you, Baines. Billingsly, you’ll help Miss Clare prepare?”

  “Of course, my lord. Godspeed to you both.”

  Evan gave his mother and sister a quick kiss. “We’ll see you at the inn, Mama.” He held out a hand to Andrea.

  She threw her arms around him and hugged tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she took his wrist, and the two made their way to the waiting horses.

  After a long, frigid, punishing ride, during which they stopped only to change mounts and fortify themselves with bread, meat and steaming mugs of tea, they reached the coast. Though he knew she must be exhausted by the pace—he was exhausted himself—Andrea uttered not a word of complaint. There was iron under that fragile exterior, Evan thought with admiration.

  They found the well-known inn without difficulty. When Evan helped Andrea to dismount, her lame leg crumpled.

  “I’ll be all right,” she protested as he lifted her. “I’m just stiff from the saddle.”

  “And no wonder,” he said, setting her on her feet gently. “You’ve been a trooper. I’m proud of you, Andy.”

  She gave him a brief smile and took his arm. “Let’s find Richard.”

  They were directed to a small private chamber. A surgeon met them at the door. “Lord Cheverley? Thank God you’ve arrived! And…”

  “Captain Marlowe’s sister. She will come in, so there’s no use telling her she can’t. What can we do?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Captain Marlowe is feverish and unconscious now, though I’m hoping he may come round. He was most insistent that he talk with you.”

  “And his condition?” Evan asked.

  The surgeon glanced at Andrea.

  “Tell us straight out. She didn’t ride all day to hear it sugarcoated.”

  The surgeon shook his head. “I can’t offer much hope. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he’s held on this long. Better let the young lady say her goodbyes.”

  He heard Andrea’s quick intake of breath, and his own chest tightened. This was Richard, the best friend who’d grown to manhood with him, the man with whom he’d gambled and fished and hunted. Richard couldn’t be dying.

  But the gray-faced, sweat-soaked man sleeping fitfully on the bed looked more like an actor grease-painted with Richard’s features than his dearest friend. Shocked, Evan halted by the bed.

  Andrea, however, limped quickly over and took her brother’s hand. “Richard, it’s Andy. I’m here now. Everything will be all right.” Over her shoulder she called back to Evan, “Have someone bring cold water and a cloth.”

  As the day dimmed and night came on, Andrea sat sponging her brother’s fevered face and chest, talking, talking in her soft calm voice. The sound seemed to quiet him, for he grew less restless. Finally, just after the candles were lit, he opened his eyes.

  “Andy?” A whisper of sound.

  “Yes, Richard.” She swallowed hard, and one tear spilled down her cheek as she stroked her brother’s sunken cheek. “It’s Andy.”

  “Thirsty,” Richard croaked. Evan hastened to carefully lift him, gritting his teeth at the muffled moan of anguish even that slight movement caused his friend, while Andrea put a cup to his lips.

  “Evan,” Richard said, turning his head slightly toward him after he’d lowered the soldier back to his pillow. “Good. Must…talk.”

  “Rest now, Richard. We’ll talk later.”

  A thin, hot hand sought Evan’s and gripped it. “Stay?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be here every minute, and in the carriage when we take you home.”

  The injured man’s lips curved into a slight smile. “Hom
e,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.

  Voices sounded in the hallway outside, and a moment later Evan’s mother walked in. Her eyes widened when she saw Richard, and she put a hand to her mouth as if stifling a cry. After a struggle, she seemed to master herself and walked over to Andrea. “Has she eaten or rested?” she whispered to Evan.

  “Not since we arrived hours ago.”

  His mother nodded, then gave Andrea a little shake. “You must have nourishment and get some sleep, my dear. We’ll need you strong when we bring him home tomorrow.”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “You won’t have to. I’ve directed the innkeeper to deliver a cot. But you must eat, and you’ll want to freshen up. I’ve brought some things. Come, Evan will call us immediately if there’s any change.”

  Stubbornly Lady Cheverley murmured to Andrea until she convinced her to go below for some food and fresh air. After helping her downstairs, his mother returned.

  “How is he?”

  Evan shook his head, unable to put the doctor’s prediction into words. If he did not speak them, they could not be true.

  The wounded man stirred, opened his eyes. “Evan?”

  Evan bent over his friend. “Here, Richard. Another drink?”

  “No. Talk.”

  “Don’t tire yourself. We can—”

  “Now. Andrea’s…letters. Never…wanted London. Shouldn’t…have forced her. Take…her home. Please?”

  “Of course. If she wants to go home, I’ll take her.”

  “So…sweet. Needs…good man. If…I die—”

  “You won’t die!”

  “If I die…marry her. Promise.”

  Evan sat silent. A scent of lavender, the whisper of a voice teased his mind. Emily.

  Richard grasped his arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Marry…her. Promise me!”

  Evan swallowed hard. “I promise.”

  The hold on his arm loosened. “Good.” The brief flicker of a smile passed over Richard’s cracked lips. “Bless you…friend.”